I need to give her a fucking task.
I feel dirty just thinking about it, but if it’s what she needs, is it any better if I refuse to give it to her just because I think it’s fucked up?
I want to rake my hands through my hair again, but I stop myself this time before I try. “Okay. I… I’ll try,” I tell her.
“I only want to make you happy,” she states, and her voice is so small that I do feel like a monster. “I’m not trying to be an inconvenience.”
“You’re not an inconvenience, Elise. As you pointed out, you’re only here because I wanted you to be.”
Responding to the flatness in my voice, she stands, placing a reassuring hand on my arm. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
I don’t feel right about her touching me right now, but I don’t know how to pull away without making her feel rejected. “I’ll try to be more supportive,” I state. Dropping my arm so she has to pull hers back, I say, “Right now I think I need to get some air, if that’s okay with you.”
Elise sighs, but nods her head.
Retrieving my keys from the hook where I left them, I lock the door behind me and head for the nearest bar.
Chapter Four
I don’t make it all the way to the bar. I prowl the city for a bit first, trying to think what the hell I can give Elise to do that will give her some direction. I wind up going in and out of shops, searching for something. I pick up a journal with pink and white watercolor on the front. Maybe a journal’s a good idea. Even the 16-year-old girl I’d talked to in that jail cell had more self-direction than Elise does now, but that was also when she’d only been there for a year. I remember at one point she told me she wanted to write the story of her life, not necessarily for anyone else to read, but just for her, just so she had some tangible evidence that it all had really happened.
Reflecting on that, I go back and pick out a second one. I have an idea to meet her needs and force her to reflect on herself, but I’m not sure if it will work, mainly because I don’t know if she’ll welcome it. I’m supposed to assign her tasks like I’m her fucking boss, but does she just mean chores? My inner teacher has different ideas, tasks with more depth, tasks that might help her discover things about herself.
I should’ve realized this would be more work than I was expecting. I should’ve expected there to be a rocky adjustment period. Whether or not it was just, she’s right—I did rip her away from her life (and perhaps more importantly, a lifestyle) and leave her stranded in a new one with no idea what was expected of her. I’m a 33-year-old fucking man, so I just figured she would be able to figure that out without me telling her, but that was my fault. I need to be less defensive and more compassionate.
Goddamn Mateo.
Finally, I go to the bar. I order a double straight up, and before the bartender can leave I slam it back and order another.
I need to not be sober.
I really didn’t drink that much before working for Mateo, but for the past five years, it’s been a part of my routine, and now that Elise is turning out to be more damaged than I realized, I just need something to clear my aching head.
I’m finally starting to feel less sober when someone hops up on the stool beside me. I turn to glare at them, since there’s a whole empty bar, but I recognize the guy.
Colin McGregor. He’s a freelancer, but he did some work for Mateo a while back.
With a jarring slap on the back, he says, “Adrian fecking Palmetto. How the hell are ye?”
I close my eyes at the sound of his Irish brogue. “I didn’t come here to socialize, McGregor.”
“No? What’d ye come for, then?”
“To get drunk.”
He laughs at that, signaling for the bartender to come over. I guess he isn’t going to move. That sucks. While the bartender’s here, I raise my hand to tell him I need another, too.
“Celebratin’?” Colin asks.
“Celebrating?” I ask, wondering what the hell I have to be celebrating right now.
“Ye sure got out at the right time,” he says, tipping back his beer and taking a big gulp.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, grabbing the new drink the bartender sits down and wondering how much I should worry about paying this tab.
“Mateo Morelli,” he says.
That makes me surly. “I don’t wanna talk about him. I’m—He’s an asshole. Elise thinks I’m a bigger asshole than he is, and that’s… that’s stupid.”